


Chambersburg; Or, Sam Learns an Important Lesson

by sinnerforhire



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-03
Updated: 2010-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-07 00:26:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinnerforhire/pseuds/sinnerforhire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prequel to "And Karma Laughed the Hardest."  Dean's seriously ill and Sam thinks it's his fault.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Why do we have to move _now_? School's over in another month. Can't we just wait till then?"

"No, we can't," snaps John. "This case has a deadline. Sooner I get started, better chance we have of stopping this guy before he kills more tourists."

"God!" Sam shoves his chair back and jumps up. "Just for once, can't what I want matter? Even just a little?"

"Sammy--" John starts, but Sam gives him a murderous glance and stalks off. John sighs and turns to Dean. "Go talk some sense into your brother."

"Sure. And why don't I cure cancer while I'm at it?" John glares at him. Dean holds up a hand. "Yeah, okay. I'll try."

Dean cautiously opens the door and steps over the threshold into their tiny bedroom. Sam is sitting on the edge of his bed sulking, arms crossed tightly over his chest. Dean moves to the end of the bed. "Look, Sam, I know it sucks, but--"

"You don't know anything!" Sam shouts. "I got the lead in the graduation play. The _lead._ And I was gonna ask Katie McCloskey to the dance, and her best friend told me she would say yes." He turns pleading eyes on Dean. "Can't you and I stay here? Just till school's out?"

Dean sighs. "And just how are we supposed to pay the rent on this place, huh?"

"You're always on his side. You don't care about me either." Sam sniffles and turns away.

"That's not true and you know it," replies Dean. He goes to sit down beside Sam, but Sam shoves him away.

"Go away. I don't wanna talk to you anymore."

"I'm sorry," says Dean softly as he walks out, closing the door behind him.

John's cleaning up the dishes when Dean returns. Dean collects the empty glasses. "You know, Dad, maybe he and I could stay here by ourselves, just till school's over. It's only a month." He puts the glasses on the counter next to the sink.

"I thought you wanted to help with this hunt."

"I do," Dean answers, "but if it'll make the kid happy--"

John shakes his head. "He needs to learn that he can't always get his way."

"I know, but--"

"Dean." John's voice is sharp. "I said no. End of discussion." Dean nods and turns to leave. John dries his hands and tosses Dean the car keys. "Go to the grocery store and get some boxes. The ones in the front closet got damp."

"Sure." Dean grins. Rachel Visconi works at the grocery store. He'd like to get her into the back storage room. She just broke up with the captain of the lacrosse team and she's been eying him all week. "You need me to be back right away?" he asks casually.

"Just be back before midnight, all right? I heard the cops are real gung-ho about that new curfew thing."

"Yeah, okay." The store closes at ten. He can seal the deal if he plays his cards right.

When he gets there, Rachel isn't working, but a new girl named Kristin is and she's even hotter than Rachel. She's got long honey-blonde hair and a golden tan and a pink butterfly tattooed on her wrist. Dean waits around until her shift ends at eight and then takes her to Lookout Point, where he gets to find out what the rest of her tattoos look like.

Dean's naturally in a good mood when he gets home at eleven. It gets even better when he realizes he doesn't have to do his algebra or history homework because they're leaving in two days. He's got a smile on his face when he opens the door to the bedroom.

His ears are immediately assaulted by some kind of douchey alt-rock shit. Sam's got the CD player cranked up as high as John will allow it and he's writing in a book that doesn't have lines on the pages. Dean walks by without Sam noticing and slams his hand down on the 'off' button of the CD player. Sam glares up at him. "Hey!"

Dean takes advantage of Sam's distraction to grab the book out of his hands. "You have got to be fucking kidding me. 'Dear diary, today no girls talked to me and a popular kid tripped me in the lunch line," he recites in a high-pitched singsong voice.

Sam glares at him. "It doesn't even say that."

"I was cutting you a break," Dean explains. He flips back a few pages. "'The Darkness Within, by Sam Winchester. I sit in silence--'"

"Give it back!" yells Sam, blushing. He scrambles off the bed and grabs for the book, but Dean holds it over his head. Sam growls and punches Dean in the stomach, but Dean still manages to keep the book out of Sam's hands.

Dean twists away and runs to the other side of the room, putting both beds in between them. He pulls his Zippo out of his pocket and flicks it open. He lights it and holds it a half-inch away from the lower corner of the book cover. Sam screeches Dean's name, but his voice cracks halfway through and Dean doesn't even bother to try to hold back his laughter. Sam charges forward and tries for the book again, but Dean throws it to the far bed and knocks Sam to the floor. Dean scrambles across the room and seizes the book. Sam jumps up and turns to face Dean, cheeks still beet-red, looking like he's about to scream or cry or both. "Dean, come on. Just give it." He gives Dean the puppy-dog eyes. "Please?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "Whatever. Think fast," he adds, whipping the book at Sam's head. Sam manages to bat it away before it whacks him in the face.

"You're such an asshole," Sam mutters, clutching the book to his chest.

"Watch the language," Dean replies in his best impression of John. Sam doesn't even acknowledge him. Dean flops down on his stomach. "Aw, geez, Sammy. I was just messing with you. Can't you take a joke?"

"It wasn't funny." Sam's eyes flick over to Dean for just a second. "Those are my private thoughts, Dean. You weren't supposed to see them."

Dean sighs. "Fine. I'm sorry."

"Screw you," Sam replies, eyes darkened with bitterness. He sticks the book under his pillow and crawls under the covers, turning his back on Dean pointedly.

~*~*~*~*~

The place they're staying in Pennsylvania isn't bad. It's a good 25 miles away from the job, but since they're not paying rent, they really can't complain. They have their own bedrooms; John made them spar to decide who got the little girl's room. It's got a pink canopy bed and everything. Sam was really pissed. But hey, he shouldn't have gotten careless. That's the problem with 13-year-olds--all attitude and no brains.

Not that the room Dean's staying in is much better. Its usual occupant must be about 10 years old and obsessed with dinosaurs. There are dinosaur sheets, dinosaur curtains, a stegosaurus rug and model dinosaurs on every surface. But it's not pink. That's all Dean really cares about. Plus, the kid's got his own TV--with cable--and VCR. Dean's going to have to hit the video store with his fake ID.

Dean's watching _Mystery Science Theater 3000_ ("Pod People"--a travesty of a movie but an awesome episode) when Sam wanders through the half-open door. "What do you want, squirt?"

Sam glares at him, chin jutting out. "Screw you, assface." He steps closer, apparently noticing the TV. "Is that MST3K?" he asks, eyes wide with interest.

"Yeah, and I can't hear it, so sit down and shut up," Dean snaps back.

Sam drags the desk chair over and sits down just in time for the "idiot control now" song. They're both laughing by the end of it. "You need that shirt," says Dean, pointing to the guy with the "I'm A Virgin" t-shirt. Sam leans over and punches him in the shoulder. Once they see TV's Frank in the same shirt, they both bust up laughing so hard that at first Dean doesn't hear the pounding on the wall. When he finally notices it, he sobers and gestures at Sam to do the same.

Next thing they know, John's at the door and he looks half-awake and pissed as hell. "It's one in the fucking morning," he growls.

"Sorry," they chorus in unison.

"Get back in your room," John barks at Sam. He turns to Dean. "You got that much energy? You work it off. Here to the hospital, 20 laps."

"That'd be, like, 13 miles," Sam says quietly. Dean silently cusses him out, not for being the smart one but for never knowing when to keep his fucking mouth shut.

When John looks at Sam, Dean can see the cords in his neck standing out. Sam visibly gulps and takes a step backwards. "You wanna go too?" John asks, the threat clear.

"No, sir."

"Then shut the hell up and _go to your room._" He steps back from the doorway to let Sam slink past with his shoulders hunched and his head hanging.

Dean pulls on his sneakers and grabs his keys. When he passes by Sam's room, there's a sliver of light under the doorframe. A hand snakes out and grabs his wrist. "I'm sorry," Sam murmurs from behind the door.

"You should be," Dean whispers back. "Ever notice how _you_ fucking around only gets me in trouble?"

"Dean!" Dean whirls around but sees nothing in the darkness of the hallway. "Get going or it's ten more laps."

"Yes, sir." Dean hurries down the stairs and out the door, locking the deadbolt behind him.

It's two-thirds of a mile to Chambersburg Hospital, give or take, and the residential streets are well-lit and utterly deserted. The night is cool and clear, a slight breeze rustling the leaves of the trees overhead. Sweat drips down his back, soaking his thin t-shirt. He's got a good pace going and the laps tick by with a hypnotic regularity.

He looks at his watch when he hits their lawn; it reads 3:20. Not his best, but not bad. Now that he's stopped moving, it seems colder. By the time he's done stretching, he has to clench his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. The change in temperature when he enters the house raises goosebumps on his exposed skin. He changes into dry clothes and climbs into bed.

*~*~*~*~*

Dean awakens ungodly early to someone banging on the door. "Go the fuck away," he mumbles and rolls over, pulling the pillow over his head.

Next thing he knows, Sam's shaking him. "Dad said get up," Sam tells him, and there's a note of apology in his tone.

Dean groans softly and pushes himself up. He's stiff and sore, which he expected, but it seems a little worse than it should be. There's also a slight twinge behind his eyes that he knows will be a killer headache later. He glances at the clock, which reads 7:47. No wonder he feels like crap. "Tell 'im I'm gettin' a shower," Dean says, yawning.

"Okay," replies Sam, but he's looking at Dean funny.

Dean stumbles into the bathroom and turns the shower on, hot as he can stand. He stands under the spray for several long minutes, letting it pound on his aching neck and shoulders. He can't remember ever being this messed up after just running a couple of miles on pavement. He finally drags himself out from under the water and dries off gingerly.

"Finally," says John when Dean walks into the kitchen. "You're gonna be late for your appointment at the museum."

"What appointment?" Dean asks, sitting heavily on the padded chair.

"The appointment I made for you last night," John replies, and Dean swears he sees a hint of pleasure in John's eyes. Son of a bitch is enjoying this. "You're going to meet with the collections manager and look through the last ten years of acquisition records."

"Joy," mutters Dean.

John gives him a sharp look. "What was that?"

Dean straightens up in his chair and tries to look innocent. "Nothing."

"Sucks to be you," says Sam, pouring himself a second bowl of cereal and grinning smugly.

"Quit smiling, you're going with him," replies John. He looks a little smug himself.

Sam drops his spoon in the bowl, splashing milk onto the glass tabletop. "Why do I always have to do the boring stuff?" he whines. "It's not fair."

"Nothing in life is fair," John retorts. "You'll get over it." The antique cuckoo clock proclaims the quarter-hour and John jumps up from the table. "Caleb's picking me up. I'll probably be gone for a few days."

"Are you going on another case?" demands Sam.

"I"m just consulting," John answers. "You two need to leave in the next five minutes if you want to get to the museum on time."

Dean nods. "Okay." He grabs the milk carton and takes a long swig before he puts it back in the fridge.

"Don't let the dishes pile up," says John as he pockets his journal. "And run the vacuum this weekend."

Sam makes a face. Dean walks behind him and smacks him lightly on the back of the head. "Sure, Dad."

John leaves and Sam punches Dean in the back as he moves away. "I'm not doing all the chores," says Sam.

"Wanna bet?" Dean goes to the front door and grabs the car keys off the hook next to it. "Come on, we're going."

There's a lot of traffic on Route 30, so they don't quite make it to the museum in time. When they arrive, they're met at the door by a matronly woman in a red ruffled blouse. "You must be John's boys," she says, smiling. "I'm Pat, the collections manager. Follow me."

She leads them to a back storage room with a card table and two folding chairs set up in one corner. "The acquisitions records are in these five boxes," she tells them, indicating a low shelf. "They're filed by month. Some months we'll get nothing, others we'll get a traveling exhibit with a dozen or more pieces." She takes a step back, into the doorway. "Bathroom and kitchen are to the right, my office is to the left. Let me know if you need anything." She gives them a friendly smile and leaves.

"She seems nice," says Sam as he pulls the first box off the shelf.

Dean grunts noncommittally as he searches the shelves for paper and pens. He finds a stack of legal pads and a box of pens with the museum's name and phone number. He sets two of each on the table and grabs a folder out of the box. Sam does the same.

 The work is tedious and dull. Dean wishes he'd thought to bring his Walkman, especially when Sam starts humming that alternative shit he still likes even though it stopped being popular two years ago. Dean lets him go until he starts trying to sing. That's where he draws the line.

"But I'm bored," Sam complains. "This is stupid. Why can't they file all the stuff they still have together?"

The kid has a point. "Because that would be too easy," Dean replies, glad he can be as sarcastic as he wants.

"We're never gonna get through all these files in one day," Sam goes on. "Do we have to keep coming back here until we're done?"  
Dean glares at him. "What, are you new? Dad gave us a job to do and we're gonna do it, no matter how long it takes."

Sam groans. "But Dean--"

"Can it," Dean snaps. "Get back to work."

Pat comes in at noon, clucking her tongue and shaking her head. "Look at you two! I wish all my interns had your work ethic!" She smiles brightly at each of them in turn. "Go ahead and take an hour for lunch. I'm sure you saw all the fast-food places on your way into town."

Dean nods. "Thank you." He waits a second for Sam to chime in, then kicks his chair when he doesn't. Sam glares at Dean but echoes his words.

They drive out to Lincoln Highway and stop at the first place they hit, a McDonald's with a playground. Dean immediately takes his tray to the opposite end of the restaurant from the screaming kids in deference to his growing headache. Sam follows him, still jabbering about the inefficiency of the museum's filing system. "God, Sammy, would you give it a rest?"

"It's _Sam,_" he replies peevishly.

"Whatever." Dean picks up a fry, then drops it as it's too hot to hold, let alone eat. He's not really hungry, but that isn't a problem--Sam will finish whatever he doesn't. Kid can't stop eating these days. Dean's kind of relieved, because surely that means Sam's going to start another growth spurt soon and have a prayer of hitting five feet before he's old enough to drive.

Sure enough, Sam finishes eating before Dean's half done with his burger and turns hopeful eyes on Dean's tray. "You gonna eat your fries?"

Dean shrugs and turns the tray around. "Go 'head." Sam grins and shoves a handful of fries in his mouth. Dean rolls his eyes. "God, you're a fucking bottomless pit."

"I'm supposed to be," Sam mumbles around a mouthful of starch. "I'm still growing, unlike _someone_ at this table."

Dean glares and throws a wadded-up napkin at him. Sam retaliates by throwing an empty cup of barbecue sauce at Dean's head. Dean ducks and it hits the wall behind him. An elderly lady at the trash can shoots him a nasty look and mutters something to her friend. Dean gives her a half-hearted smile and kicks Sam under the table. Sam yelps. "Quit screwing around," Dean hisses.

"You started it!" Sam protests.

"And I'm finishing it. Are you done?" Dean checks his watch. "We gotta get back to the museum."

"Can I have a dollar to get a sundae?"

"No, 'cause you're not eating in the car." Dean stands up and has to grab the edge of the table when the room tilts sideways. He squeezes his eyes shut and waits for the dizzy spell to pass. When he opens them, Sam's gone.

He looks up to see Sam holding the door open. "What are you waiting for? Come on."

Dean blinks a few times, then takes his tray to the trash can and follows Sam out to the car. He's half tempted to let Sam drive them back--he taught Sam to drive one weekend when John was away and they were staying in the middle of nowhere, and his own learner's permit is still in the glove box--but then he remembers the traffic circle in the middle of town and thinks better of it. It's only a couple of miles; as long as he doesn't make any sudden moves, he should be fine. He takes a few deep breaths and slides behind the wheel.

They make it back to the museum without incident and go right back to work in the tiny storage closet. Sam keeps bitching, first about the hunt and then about everything he's missing at his last school, and Dean ignores him until he starts increasing the volume.

"Dammit, Sam, can you not shut up for like, five seconds?" Dean snaps. "You're giving me a fucking headache."

"You can't tell me what to do. You're not Dad."

"Can I make it a friendly request?" Dean replies wearily. He leans his elbow on the table and digs the heel of his hand into his forehead. "Seriously, my head's killing me. Can we just get this done?"

Sam ducks his head. "Yeah, okay," he says, almost too quietly for Dean to hear. He takes the thickest folders out of the stack in front of Dean and piles them on top of his own. He works silently, seemingly deep in concentration, but his gaze keeps straying to Dean.

Dean struggles through page after typewritten page, the words blurring before his tired eyes. He makes notes he's not even sure he'll be able to read later; his penmanship isn't great at the best of times. He's aware of Sam's worried eyes on him and tries to look less worn out but he doubts he's pulling it off. Around 3:00 he finally gives up. "I'm going to the bathroom, I'll be back."

He goes out to the car and digs around in the glove box until he finds a bottle of Tylenol. It's probably ancient, but it's better than nothing. He dry-swallows two capsules and heads back inside. In the bathroom, he splashes cold water on his face and the back of his neck. He looks in the mirror at the deep shadows under his eyes and wonders what the hell his problem is--he's gone longer on a hell of a lot less sleep, so that shouldn't be what's making him feel like shit. He hopes he's not getting a cold or something, he hates being sick when it's warm out.

When he returns to the storage closet, Sam hands him a bottle of water. "It's kinda hot in here," he says by way of explanation.

"Where'd you get that?" Dean twists the cap off and takes a few swigs.

"The break room has a machine."

Dean holds the bottle out to Sam, but he shakes his head. Dean narrows his eyes and sets the bottle on the table as hard as he can without splashing the water out. Sam rolls his eyes, takes a small sip, and hands it back. Dean grabs it and finishes it off, then sits down and goes back to work.

By quarter of four, Dean's feeling less like roadkill and more like a human being, so he starts playing Sam's favorite car game with him. It involves quoting Monty Python lines back and forth until somebody runs out of quotes or Dad loses his shit, the latter coming first all but one time (and that was when John had laryngitis). Sam's halfway through "Medical Love Song" when Pat shows up at the door, and when he notices her he blushes so deeply Dean's surprised he didn't spontaneously combust.

"Just leave everything there, no one will bother it," she says with her typical smile. "I guess I'll see you tomorrow?"

Dean nods. "Yeah, we'll need at least one more day." He picks up the notepads, angling them towards her so she can see that they've actually done work. "We'll look over these notes tonight and see if we can find anything."

She beams. "I can't tell you how much we appreciate this. We'll have to shut our doors permanently if this--" her voice drops to a hush, "--_problem_ can't be resolved."

"Don't worry, our dad's the best," says Sam. "Right, Dean?"

"Right," Dean agrees. "This is what we do. We'll take care of it."

A voice down the hall gets Pat's attention and she leans out the door. "Come now, Fred wants to lock up." She ushers them out through the main doors and waves cheerfully as they climb into the car.

Dean shakes his head. "People like that kinda creep me out. Nobody is that happy all the time."

"She probably feels sorry for us," Sam replies, his expression darkening.

"That's not it," Dean says quickly, trying to head Sam's mood swing off at the pass. "We probably remind her of her children or grandchildren or something."

Sam doesn't respond, chooses instead to stare out the side window at the traffic. Tourist season is just starting and already the town is crowded with cars from Jersey and Maryland and West Virginia. Unfortunately, Sam turns forward just as three school buses cross the intersection in front of them. Sam heaves a huge sigh and Dean knows he's in for it now.

*~*~*~*~*

Dean squints at the handwritten notes in the margins of the police report, looking for any clue that might lead him to discover which of the museum's artifacts has a homicidal spirit attached. His headache from earlier is back with a vengeance and his neck is stiff and achy as well, probably from leaning over a table all day.

He hears a series of successive clunks and gets up from the table to investigate. He finds Sam at the bottom of the stairs, vacuum in hand. "I did the upstairs. _Now_ can we have dinner?"

"Only if you're making it," Dean answers, walking back in the kitchen.

"I don't wanna cook," Sam whines.

Dean crosses his arms. "I don't wanna cook either. So now what?"

"No fair! I did all the vacuuming."

"What do you want, a medal?"

Sam glares at him. "Quit being a jerk and make dinner."

"I don't take orders from you," Dean retorts. "You know where the stove is, make it yourself."

"No!"

"Then I guess we're not eating." Dean turns and takes a step toward the table.

"I hate you!" Sam shrieks. Before Dean knows what's happening, he's falling. He tries to grab onto the back of the nearest chair but misses. His head connects with the edge of the countertop and everything goes black.

"--ake up. Dean?"

"Nnrrrghh."

"Dean! Open your eyes."

Dean does as he's told, but that turns out to be a very, very bad idea. The pain is hot and bright and sharp, like a lightning bolt inside his head. It lessens slightly when he squeezes his eyes shut, but not that much. He can hear the blood rushing in his ears and he feels like he's going to be sick. He swallows convulsively and tries to breathe slowly and steadily through his nose.

"Dean?" Sam's voice is small, scared. "Are you...okay?"

He can't nod and he's afraid to open his mouth, so he gropes around until he finds Sam's arm and pats it, hoping Sam will get the message.

Sam grabs Dean's other hand and guides it to the bit of paper towel stemming the bleeding from the cut on his forehead. "Hold this. I'm gonna go get the kit."

The brightness beyond Dean's eyelids dims substantially. "I turned the lights down," says Sam. "It should be okay now."

Dean carefully pries one eye open. When his head doesn't immediately explode, he opens the other. Sam roots around in their huge first-aid kit until he comes up with the butterfly bandages. He bites his lip. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."

Dean grunts noncommittally. He's not going to let Sam off the hook that easily. He bites back a moan as Sam painstakingly applies the Steri-Strips. When Sam finishes, he puts the kit back together and sits back on his heels. "You need anything?"

"Ice," Dean answers quietly. Sam jumps up and hurries over to the freezer. When Dean moves to sit up, pain flares in his neck and he groans.

Sam spins around, eyes wide with concern. "You all right?"

"Peachy." Dean rolls over and gets up on his knees. The movement makes the floor tilt crazily and he has to put out a hand to keep from falling back over. He swallows hard against the rising nausea. If he even has a goddamn concussion, he's gonna kill the kid.

Dean struggles to his feet and drops into the nearest chair. Sam hands him the ice pack and he presses it with a wince to the gash on his temple. He leans heavily against the back of the chair. "Get me some Tylenol, willya?"

"Sure," replies Sam. He grabs a bottle from the first-aid kit that's still open on the floor and sets it down on the table in front of Dean. Without any prompting, he gets a glass out of the cupboard and fills it with water, then opens the bottle of Tylenol and shakes four capsules into his hand. Wordlessly, he holds them out to Dean. Dean smiles weakly and accepts them. He swallows the pills and water carefully, not wanting them to make a return trip.

Sam hesitates, then sits down in the chair across from Dean. "I'm really, really sorry. I swear, I didn't mean for you to fall. I just...was mad 'cause you picked a fight."

"So this is _my_ fault?"

"Yes! I mean, no. I mean--" Sam trails off, clearly flustered. "I wouldn't have pushed you, except you were being such an ass about dinner."

"Oh no," Dean replies, sitting up straighter. "No. This is your fault. You took the cheap shot, like a coward."

"Did not!" Sam's cheeks redden. "You should have seen it coming!"

"You're supposed to be watching my back, not--" Dean stops mid-sentence when pain spikes in his head and the room starts spinning. He doesn't realize he's leaning forward until his neck pulls painfully and his vision blurs. He drops the ice pack and grabs the edge of the table with both hands to keep himself from toppling off the chair. Looking down at the table is out, so he fixates on the wall clock and breathes shallowly, concentrating on not throwing up. The blood is rushing in his ears again and he just barely hears Sam call his name in a panic.

The next thing Dean knows, he's looking at Sam's worried face inches from his. He reaches out and tries to push Sam away. "G'toff me."

Sam tentatively takes a step back. When Dean doesn't immediately fall over, his face softens a little. "You should be on the couch or in bed or something," he says, words tumbling out in a nervous rush. "Think you can get up?"

"'Course I can," Dean grumbles, but his body seems to have other ideas. When he stands up, his knees buckle and it's only Sam's quick reflexes that keep him from hitting the floor. Dean leans heavily on Sam as he makes his slow, wobbly way to the couch. Once Dean's sitting down, Sam rushes back to the kitchen and comes back with a full glass of water and the thermometer. "What the hell?"

"You've got a fever," Sam replies, handing the plastic instrument over.

"Do not."

Sam raises an eyebrow. "Wanna bet?"

Dean wants to roll his eyes but decides that under the circumstances, that might not be the best idea. He snatches up the thermometer with a low growl and glares at Sam the entire time it's in his mouth. When it beeps, Dean looks down at the readout and goddammit, Sam's right: 102.7. He shows it to Sam, who nods sagely and hands him the glass of water with an admonishment to drink it all.

"Tyrant," Dean mutters under his breath, handing the empty glass back.

"Invalid," Sam retorts. "Lie down before you pass out again."

Dean has to admit that it's kind of a relief to finally lie down and rest. He must have the flu or something; whatever it is, it's a _bitch_. He can't remember ever having a headache this bad, and he's had a couple of concussions. Of course, it's entirely possible that he has a concussion now on top of whatever virus is kicking his ass. When he gets better, Sam is _so_ dead.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam awakens with a start and immediately looks over at Dean, who's shifting restlessly and mumbling something Sam can't make out. He hurries over to the couch and grasps Dean's shoulders, flinching at the intense heat he can feel even through Dean's shirt. He shakes Dean gently. "Dean, wake up. It's just a nightmare. It's okay." Dean gasps and Sam shakes him a little bit harder. "Come on, wake up. Dean!" Dean's eyes open a crack and he groans loudly. "Dean? You okay?"

"Too bright," Dean mutters. Sam frowns. The only light in the room is what's spilling over from the kitchen; it's barely bright enough for him to make out Dean's features. If he turns it off, he won't be able to see anything.

"I can't turn it off," Sam replies softly. Dean tries to turn his head away and cries out in pain. Sam's heart jumps into his throat. Something's seriously wrong with Dean and it's up to him to figure out what. He takes a deep breath and crouches down. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"Hurts," Dean whispers.

"What hurts?"

"Light." The word is barely more than a breath. "Hurts my eyes."

Sam's pretty sure that's a bad sign. He tries to think through the chapter on head injuries in the first-aid manual they both had to memorize. Just then he remembers something. "Is this the worst headache you've ever had?"

Sam has to lean in closer to hear Dean's answer. "Oh yeah."

Sam stands up and runs his hands through his hair. He's got to get Dean to the hospital _now_. How he's going to do that, he has no idea--Dean can hardly move, and while Sam knows how to drive, he's pretty sure that'll raise red flags with the child services people. The more he thinks about it, the more it seems to come down to one option and one option only. Luckily, Dean's in no shape to argue and yeah, Dad's gonna kill him later but he doesn't really have a choice. He walks to the kitchen, picks up the phone and dials 911.

He tells the operator everything he knows, talking so fast that she has to stop him a couple times to repeat things. When the paramedics arrive, he answers questions without really listening to them until the female medic asks him when Dean started feeling sick. He looks at the clock on the mantle and is shocked to find that it's 4:00 am already. "Um, yesterday, I guess," he answers, feeling useless and stupid. "He said he had a headache after lunch."

"And he hit his head when?"

"Last night." His voice shakes; he's dangerously close to crying. If Dean's deathly ill because of something he did, he'll never forgive himself. Dad will never forgive him, either.

"Do you remember what time it was?"

"About seven-thirty."

She nods and starts talking to Dean, asking him the standard orientation questions. Beyond his name he can't answer any of them correctly and Sam's stomach churns as he watches Dean flounder. She shines her penlight in his eyes and Dean yelps like a wounded animal. After giving him a minute to recover, she asks him to sit up. Dean doesn't even manage to move an inch before crying out in pain. Sam flinches and stumbles backward into the recliner, spinning it a half-turn so he won't have to watch Dean suffering. She's talking too low for Sam to make out what she's saying, but he hears it when she gets up and radios to her partner to bring the stretcher in. He turns the chair back around and tentatively gets up.

"Your parents aren't here?" she asks.

"Dad's on a business trip," he answers, the lie rolling easily off his tongue. "He's...it."

"Okay, we'll take you with us, then. You can call your father from the hospital." She looks up when her partner, a short bald guy, enters. They put an elaborate collar on Dean before they lift him onto the stretcher. Sam hurries to the door to grab the keys and he opens it so they can wheel Dean out. After he locks the door, she helps him into the back of the ambulance. The collar and the oxygen mask that she's added makes it hard to see Dean's face and he looks so small and helpless and desperately ill.

It only takes five minutes to get to the hospital, which is pretty much the only good thing about this situation, and Sam numbly follows along until they tell him he can't. A nurse starts asking him questions about Dean that he answers with robotic detachment until she mentions insurance and his stomach clenches. "I need to t-talk to my d-dad," he stammers, giving her his best "puppy-dog eyes," as Dean always says.

She predictably melts and leads him to a small room with a desk. "Take as much time as you need," she murmurs. She steps out and closes the door quietly. He takes a deep breath and dials a familiar number.

Four rings. "_This is John Winchester, leave a message..._"

He takes a deep breath. "Dad, you need to come home. Dean's really sick, he's in the hospital, it's...it's bad. We need you. Please, get here as fast as you can."

Sam grabs a tissue out of the box on the corner of the desk and wipes away the tears, then exits the room and goes back to find the nurse. She takes him to a cubicle and puts all the information he can give into a computer. Then she leads him to a waiting area. "The doctor will come get you when your brother's stabilized."

He doesn't mean to fall asleep, but he's exhausted and it's still pitch-dark outside. A young nurse wakes him up just before dawn. "Sam Winchester?"

"Yeah. How's my brother?"

Her dark eyes are kind but serious. She sits down on the couch next to him. "Your brother is a very sick young man," she begins. "He appears to be suffering from bacterial meningitis. Do you know what that is?" Sam just shakes his head. Whatever it is, it doesn't sound good. "The meninges are the protective membranes surrounding the brain and spinal cord. When a bacterial infection causes those membranes to become inflamed, it's called meningitis. Bacterial meningitis can cause serious complications if not treated properly."

"Like what?" Sam whispers.

"Blindness, deafness, and seizures are the most common," she answers quietly. Sam's stomach clenches and he's horribly afraid he's going to throw up. The nurse gets up and gets him a cup of water from a cooler in the corner. She hands it to him and he takes it in one trembling hand. "Here, sip this, it'll help." He does as he's told and she goes on. "We're going to do everything we can to make sure there won't be any complications."

Sam takes a deep breath. "So what are you doing?"

"We're giving him strong antibiotics along with oxygen and fluids, and we're monitoring him very carefully. He's in the ICU right now, but if he starts responding well to the treatment he'll be moved to a regular room."

The ICU. None of them have ever been in the ICU before. People in the ICU are, like, one step away from _death_. The realization that Dean might have died if Sam hadn't woken up when he did hits him like a punch in the gut and then he can't breathe.

"Hey..._hey_, Sam, stay with me," says the nurse. "Slow, deep breaths."

He's trying, he really is, but there's a ten-ton weight sitting on his chest and he has to fight like hell for every little bit of air. He shakes his head and she frowns.

"You can do it," she urges. "Breathe in...and out. In...out...in...out."

He manages to time the spastic gasps fairly close to her words, closing his eyes when he starts seeing bright white sparks. Finally his chest stops spasming long enough for him to drag in a few deeper breaths. She smiles and keeps up her litany of encouragement until he can almost breathe normally. Once he's calmed down, she squeezes his shoulder and gets him more water. He drinks it gratefully.

"How much time did you spend with Dean yesterday?" she asks.

"Pretty much the whole day. Why?"

She sits back down next to him. "You'll get antibiotics since you've been in close contact, just as a precaution. The doctor will come get you when it's time to give you the shot."

"Can I see him?"

She frowns. "Just for a minute," she answers. She leads him to the elevator and the ride to the third floor seems to take forever. Finally the doors part, revealing the clear glass walls of the ICU. He follows her through the sliding doors and past a few elderly patients' beds to another set of sliding doors. Inside he can see his father conversing with a doctor and relief washes over him. He's not alone anymore. Dad's here. Dad will take care of the hard stuff.

John looks up as the doors open and his face softens upon seeing Sam. Sam can't help himself, he runs to his father and nearly tackles him, clutching him like the lifeline he is.

"Hey, Sammy," John murmurs. "You holdin' up okay?"

"Yeah," Sam sighs, burying his face in John's worn flannel shirt. The doctor goes on talking to John but Sam doesn't really listen, just picks up words here and there, words like _outlook_ and _permanent_ and _negative_. Finally the doctor stops talking and Sam watches his shoes walk into the cubicle where Dean is. Sam turns his head and looks at his brother for the first time since their arrival hours ago.

Dean still has on a full oxygen mask, which Sam's pretty sure isn't good, and he's got IVs in both arms and a pulse-ox clip on one finger. His cheeks are still flushed with fever, contrasting sharply with the dark shadows under his eyes and the greyish pallor of his sweat-dampened skin. He's utterly still, more so than Sam can ever remember him being. Sam's sure it's good that Dean isn't conscious since it means he's not in pain, but it makes him look like he's halfway to the grave.

Sam pulls away from John finally. "He's gonna be okay, right?"

John scrubs a hand over his face. He looks down at Sam with solemn eyes. "I hope so," John whispers. "I really hope so."

*~*~*~*~*

When Dean opens his eyes, it's blessedly dark. Even so, the headache throbbing behind his temples doesn't ease a bit. His throat is raw and painful as well, which is new. Also new is the sharp, pinching pain above his right ear. He reaches up, mindful of the IV in his hand, and his fingers connect with a thin plastic tube. Clearly he missed quite a bit of action.

The door opens and Dean flinches at the intrusion of the light from the hallway. The figure in the doorway switches on the overhead light. It's fairly dim but still hurts like hell. He lets out a loud moan.

"Dean! You're awake!" Sam's excited voice makes him wince. Dean carefully looks over at his brother, who's sitting in a plastic chair next to his bed. Sam looks like a normal kid on Christmas morning, smiling and bouncing a little in his seat.

"Good to see you again, kiddo," says John, who's seated on the other side. "It's been a while."

"How are you feeling, Dean?" asks a female voice. He glances up to see a gray-haired nurse standing at the end of the bed and smiling.

"Okay, I guess," he rasps, barely audible. She moves to the table beside his bed and pours water into a cup for him. After a few sips, his throat starts to feel better. "Thanks," he says in a much stronger voice.

"On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate the pain?"

He has to think about that one. It's not as bad as it was the last time he was conscious--_that_ was a 10, no question--but it's still up there. "Eight."

She nods and picks up his chart. "I'll be right back," she promises.

John slides his chair closer. "You gave us a hell of a scare there."

"What happened? What's wrong with me?"

"Bacterial meningitis," John answers. "You were out for two days--too much pressure in your brain. They had to put the catheter in to drain the fluid out, and they put you on a ventilator. It was touch and go there for a while." His voice catches on the last few words.

_Jesus_. No wonder he feels like he got run over by a truck.

The nurse comes back with a new bag of IV fluid. She hooks it up effortlessly and he soon feels the warm fuzziness of really good drugs kick in. The nurse turns the light out and the pain starts to back off. He grins lopsidedly at John. "Good stuff."

John smiles back and pats Dean's leg. "Get some rest. We'll be here."

He lets his eyes drift closed of their own accord and soon he settles into a hazy narcotic reverie. He's aware of John and Sam talking softly and of the nurse taking his vitals. He floats in and out of consciousness, riding the wave of sensation whichever way it takes him. The light turns on a few times; once he sees a flash of white which he thinks means a doctor.

The next time he wakes up fully, the two chairs are together on one side and Sam's sleeping with his head in John's lap. Dean yawns. "Wha' time's't?"

"Late," John answers softly.

"You coulda gone home."

John shakes his head. "He won't leave." He runs a hand through Sam's too-long hair. "I don't know what happened, but you scared the shit out of him. He spent the whole first day crying, kept saying it was his fault."

"Not his fault." He shakes his head once, not thinking, and groans when the pain flares in his head and the room spins.

"Take it easy," John barks.

Dean squeezes his eyes shut and breathes, but the pain and the dizziness don't let up. "Dad--nurse--"

A minute later the light goes on again. "What do you need?" asks the nurse.

"Hurts..." he murmurs.

"Okay, just a second."

He feels John's hand on his knee. He's a little surprised--Dad isn't usually the touchy-feely type. It feels good, though.

He hears footsteps. "There, that should do it," says the nurse. The drug starts working a minute later and he lets it relax him back into sleep.

Sam's voice wakes Dean up the next time. "You didn't have to _kill_ her! Why couldn't you just take her somewhere away from people?"

"That's not how it works, Sam, you know that."

"Hey," Dean tries to say, but his throat is dry and it comes out a croak. Sam jumps up and grabs the cup of water. Dean accepts it gratefully. He tries again. "Keep it down, wouldja? Some of us're tryin' to sleep."

"Sorry," replies Sam in a tiny voice. "I didn't mean to wake you up." He's hunched in on himself, looking for all the world like he's expecting Dean to punch him.

Dean reaches out with his free hand and ruffles Sam's hair. "Jus' don't do it again, squirt."

"You feeling better?" asks John.

Shockingly, he is. "Yeah, a little."

"Good." John looks relieved. "I'm going down to the cafeteria. Sammy, keep an eye on your brother."

Sam nods solemnly. "I will."

John squeezes Dean's knee and stands up. "I'll be back in half an hour."

Once he's gone, Sam sits back down in his chair and pulls his knees up to his chest. He mumbles something so softly that Dean can't make it out. "What'd you say?"

"I'm sorry I made you sick," Sam answers, not meeting Dean's eyes.

Dean stares at him in disbelief. "It's not your fault."

"But I pushed you."

"I didn't get sick because I hit my head on the counter," replies Dean. "I was already sick when you did that."

Sam's head pops up. "You were?" He sounds ridiculously hopeful.

Dean huffs a small laugh. "Yeah, I was. I think you mighta made it worse, but you didn't make it happen."

"I'm sorry," says Sam, shifting in the chair until he's sitting like a normal person. "I wouldn't have done it if I'd known you were sick."

"I know. Don't worry about it." Dean grins. "Can't keep me down for long, you know that."

Dean expects Sam to smile back, so he's astonished when tears well up in Sam's eyes. "You...you didn't see yourself. They had to put a tube down your throat and drill a _hole_ in your _head_." Sam's voice catches and Dean can see his shoulders shaking as he tries not to break down. "It looked like you were dying. You almost did, when you stopped breathing. You almost _died_."

"Sammy..." Dean pats the bed beside him. "Get over here."

Sam gives him a puzzled look, but gingerly perches on the edge of the bed facing Dean. Dean runs a hand through Sam's shaggy hair and grasps the back of his neck, giving it a gentle squeeze. "I promise you, I ain't goin' anywhere." He pats Sam on the shoulder. "Not while I've got your ass to look out for. So quit worrying, you're stuck with me."

Sam sniffles and rewards Dean with a wobbly grin.

*~*~*~*~*

The third morning after his transfer out of the ICU, Dean's climbing the walls. He still has a low-grade fever and a constant headache, but the tubes are all out and he's down to non-narcotic painkillers. Yesterday Sam and John brought him a burger and fries and the Indiana Jones trilogy on VHS and he almost forgot he was stuck in the stupid hospital. However, another night of nurses waking him up every couple hours to check his stupid vital signs that didn't even change and he's ready to stick thermometers where the sun doesn't shine, so when the day-shift doctor comes in on rounds, Dean gives him his most winning smile. "You gonna spring me anytime soon?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," replies the doctor. "As soon as your father signs the discharge paperwork, you're good to go."

As if on cue, John strides into the room with Dean's backpack in one hand and a sheaf of papers in the other. "You ready to blow this joint?"

"You have no idea," replies Dean.

John tosses the backpack on the end of Dean's bed. "Get changed and I'll meet you downstairs."

Dean mock-salutes him and unzips the bag to find his favorite AC/DC t-shirt, jeans and boots. He raises an eyebrow at the doctor. "A little privacy, huh?"

"Of course," he replies, stepping backwards. He gestures for John to precede him and follows him out the door, closing it behind him. Dean changes out of the hospital gown and stuffs it in his bag so he can burn it when he gets home. He shoulders the backpack and takes the elevator down to the lobby.

John and Sam are both waiting for him and Sam's face lights up when the doors open. Dean thumps him on the back. "You miss me, squirt?"

"I guess," Sam answers, grinning. "But I'll miss sleeping in your room and watching your TV more."

"You better not have drooled on my pillow," Dean replies as they exit the front doors. Upon seeing the freshly-washed Impala gleaming in the sunlight, he smiles so wide his cheeks hurt. "Baby, you are a sight for sore eyes."

"You did a nice job with the waxing, kiddo," John tells Sam. "She looks real good."

Dean raises an eyebrow. "You washed the car?"

"I was bored last night," Sam replies with a shrug. "And, you know, I kinda owed you."

Dean ruffles Sam's hair. "Not bad, Sammy. Not bad."


End file.
